I'm sorry you don't get it, Mom. Sometimes I don't get why I do the things I do. I just know I wake up every morning and wish I was dead.

His invitation lingers. So does my question. Why me? I don't know the answer. When I look at myself in the mirror, all I see is a starving, stunted bird who never grew wings and lost all reason to sing.

I have no intent. I have no reason to live, that's all. When I'm gone, I don't want to be remembered.

I wish I was invisible to him, to everyone.

What did she see in me? What does she see that I don't?

I know it's hard on her. If I don't tell her she'll kill me." He pauses. "That was supposed to be funny.

She's still doing it, pushing me into situations I can't handle, making me cope. She knows I can't cope.